Page 16

I limp toward the front steps. I make it to the second one before deciding stairs were invented by sadists.

Kirill notices. “I can carry you,” Kirill says.

“You absolutely cannot.”

“It would be easier.”

“For you.”

“For everyone.”

“My remaining dignity is currently on life support. Don’t pull the plug.”

For the first time, Kirill actually smiles. It disappears almost immediately, but I see it. “Three more steps,” he says.

“I hate you.”

“You’ve known me thirty minutes.”

“I form attachments quickly.”

Anya laughs.

Between the two of them—and an amount of stubbornness that should probably be medically studied—I make it inside.

The entrance hall stops me cold. It’s enormous.

A sweeping staircase curves toward the second floor. Dark wood gleams beneath warm lighting. An antique chandelier hangs overhead, understated only if compared with Versailles. There are paintings on the walls that look old enough to have opinions about me.

Everything is immaculate. Not sterile. It’s lived in.

But the kind of lived in that involves employees whose sole purpose is ensuring nobody can prove human beings actually reside here.

I become suddenly aware of my bloodstained delivery jacket.

Excellent. I’m bringing the ambiance down.

A woman rushes toward us.

She’s perhaps in her late fifties, with silver threaded through her dark hair and a black dress buttoned neatly to her throat.

Her eyes go to Anya. “Oh, my God,” the woman says. “Miss Anya.” She reaches for her.

Anya moves straight past her. “I’m fine, Galina,” Anya says. “Elle is hurt.”

Galina's attention shifts to me. Something crosses her face. It’s gone too quickly for me to identify. Concern replaces it. “You poor girl.”

“I've had better afternoons,” I say.

“Come,” Galina says. “Sit down before you fall.”

Sensational advice.

They lead me into a sitting room just off the entrance hall. The room is somehow bigger than my entire apartment. Tall windows overlook the gardens. Bookshelves line one wall. A fire burns low in a stone fireplace despite the mild weather, because apparently rich people control climate according to aesthetics rather than temperature.

There’s a cream-colored sofa.

I stare at it. Then at the blood on me. “I don't think I should sit on that.”